


put your little hand in mine

by blobfish_miffy



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crush at First Sight, Drinking, Early 70s, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, I'm Bad At Tagging, John Deacon is adorable, Reader-Insert, Smoking, Underage Smoking, brian still dresses like a slag, but it's like an extra thing they do, even though it's early 1970, freddie is a darling, i mean they're at a pub for some part, it's basically an au, it's just kissing, john is about 18, like a fun thing, queen does exist, reader is 17, rogers already got his mullet, so don't be too harsh, so technically underage? i don't know, so there's that, suggested maylor, this is my first reader insert i've written in six years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 20:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: “Hi,”you want to say, but nothing seems to come out of your mouth. You know you look ridiculous, standing there and staring at him with your mouth slightly open as if ready to say something. You want to hit yourself out of your stupor.The boy shuffles uncomfortably in place, blushing a little, before holding out his hand for you to shake. “Hi,” he says with a small, awkward smile. “I’m John Deacon. Nice to meet you.”Or,[y/n] would like to get to know the Pastor's nephew a little better.**Title is from "Dizzy Miss Lizzy” by Larry Williams, covered by the Beatles on their 1965 album Help!.





	put your little hand in mine

**Author's Note:**

> hi there! this is an edited version of my already deleted work "I'll Make Bright Your Day", that I didn't find satisfactory and have now edited to become a reader insert(a type of fic I haven't written in six whole ass years), as I felt it fits better with the story. I really do hope you enjoy it :)  
**extra edited

_ His big, strong hands curl around her slender arms, forcing her closer to him. _

_ “Jeremiah…!” Rosie gasps. Her soft mouth has fallen open in a soft ‘o’, her cheeks tinted a pale pink. The dashing young man shushes her, dark eyes soft, and slowly slides one hand up to cup her face. _

_ “My love,” he whispers roughly, “my love, my flower; I want to breathe you in, be around you ‘till the end of time. You are the entirety of my life, Rosalind… my universe revolves around you-” _

_ A moan escapes her and she presses herself against his tall, buff form, grasping his shoulders. “Oh,  _ Jeremiah!”  _ her fingers find his forehead, and she runs the digits through his tangled locks, heat building up deep inside her belly. “Please, my darling, please!” _

_ Their mouths meet in a haze of fiery passion, mushing together and bruising on impact. He squeezes her bottom and she opens her mouth in a gasp: he takes the opportunity to slip his warm tongue inside and he explores her mouth deeply, tenderly, roughly- _

“Ugh,” you exclaim in disgust, tossing the novel away. The darned thing hits the wall of your new bedroom with a satisfying  _ thud _ before falling onto the wooden flooring in a heap of paper. It isn’t the first paperback you’ve bought at a gas station and it probably won’t be the last; thankfully, your expectations of a 50 pence romance book are never high. Still, the dramatic dialogue and badly written romances never fail to disgust you - no matter how much you secretly love it.

You roll onto your back and spread your arms and legs, making yourself resemble a starfish if it were badly deformed and overly large, before curling into a tight ball. There they are again, the  _ painful  _ thoughts; you’d managed to push them away previously, trapped in the confines of a cheap romance novel and the soft grasp of its annoying lead, but now that you no longer have the willpower to push through the book they’ve re-entered you mind at a surprisingly fast pace. The new floral bedspread under you doesn’t help either, as it only reminds you of the demise of you old room, your childhood home, and your parents’ marriage.

Dad had left for business, your mum had said.  _ “He’s a busy man, lovies,”  _ were her words, eyes still red and breath smelling of wine,  _ “he needs to leave for business. He probably won’t come back.” _

Leaving for business was, in your honest opinion, a rather fancy way of saying he’d found a young bird, divorced his wife of twenty years in a bloody  _ heartbeat,  _ and left you all behind as if you were his discarded, dirtied tissue. But, y’know - if the correct definition of ‘business’ was shagging a girl five years older than your oldest daughter and screwing over your own family with said girl, he had indeed left for business.

Dad leaving meant that your old house became too expensive. Your mother is modern woman and had insisted on having a job after she married, but she’s no more than a freelance journalist; her unsteady, meagre salary did not pay the bills, so she decided to sell the place to the highest bidder.  _ “We’re gonna go far away,”  _ she’d said.  _ “Away from the bad memories.” _

Your new home isn’t necessarily  _ far away  _ from your old one _ .  _ The place she’d deemed worthy for the three of you – so your mum, [s/n], and you – is a small cottage in a small town at the border of England and Wales. You’d arrived yesterday in the late hours of the afternoon after a four-hour trip. It was supposed to be a two hour one but your mum – never having had a sense of direction – had gotten lost and your shotgunning, navigating sister – never having had a knack for reading maps – could not for the life of her figure out where you were. You had to actually help at some point, as you’re apparently to only one who’s got your shit together, and you managed to point out which way you were supposed to go to be able to arrive at the correct place.

The cottage is decently cute and has three bedrooms and one bathroom with a separate toilet. The kitchen and the living room are connected; small washroom is attached to the kitchen with just enough room for one of those washing machines and some shelves for a makeshift pantry. It’s cosy, it’s small, and it was apparently rather cheap; but it’s still not your home, the place where you grew up, and you feel a little homesick already.

Your room is big enough for a twin bed, a desk, and a dresser. You’ve managed to hammer a long mirror to my door without the help of mum, and you actually rather like the old fifties wallpaper - the yellow and green flowers even remind you of a Monet painting – and you can’t bring yourself to tear it off.

Not that you’ve got the money to replace it, anyway.

The first thing you connected to electricity after arriving is your record-player, probably your most prized possession. Your father got it for you when you turned twelve. You’d been an enthusiastic Beatles fan for a little less than a year at that point and he probably couldn’t bear listening to their rock songs on the record player in the living room for a moment longer, even if mum quite liked them, so you got a record player of your own. A small one, perfect for your little room, and perfect to play every single record on. And though as your collection grew your Beatles-records became largely outnumbered, they’re still the ones you turn to when you feel most alone. It’s the reason their fifth album, Help!, is currently echoing through the cottage, and their rough yet smooth voices soothe you with their familiarity.

There’s still a lot of stuff to be unpacked. You know that, but you can’t bring myself to start – and apparently mum and [s/n] don’t feel like doing it either. You just did your bedrooms, the most important place for you; safe havens in a new and cold home. Things like plates and cutlery aren’t important enough to find their own place in the old cupboards yet.

You haven’t been outside yet either. It’s cold, you know that much: white lumps of snow are still noticeable in the meadows, and any puddles are frozen solid. But the central heating in the cottage – a rarity, especially in older homes – is a blessing you’re very appreciative of. Apart from the freezing weather the town appears to be small enough to make things awkward between you and the townspeople, as newcomers usually aren’t very welcomed in close-knit communities; another  _ solid  _ reason to not go outside, in your honest opinion.

A gentle popping sound shakes you out of your thoughts, and you jump up as the first chords of  _ Dizzy Miss Lizzy  _ start playing. John’s rough voice blasts through the speakers with an almost whiny  _ “you make me dizzy, Miss Lizzy-”  _ and you twirl through the room, eyes closed, singing along loudly and off-key; [s/n] shouts something from the landing but you ignore it, too immersed in the cover.

Just as you managed to hit the  _ “just a-rocking and a-rolling”  _ belt-like note the door of your room slams open, mirror rattling in place, and you, in turn, slam your foot against your desk in shock.

_ “FUCK!” _ you yell, falling to the floor and clutching your poor, poor bruised toes between your fingers. You feel the tears burning in the corners of your eyes and you look up to glare at the  _ bitch  _ that is your little sister, whose facial expression is a mix between amusement and disgust.  _ “What,  _ [s/n]?”

“Mum said to get you,” she huffs, crossing her arms and jutting her hip out. The sheer sassiness contained in her little, thirteen-year-old body is baffling. “The town’s pastor and his nephew are coming to welcome us soon and she wants you to be decent.”

“I  _ am  _ decent,” you hiss.

“Decent meaning not listening to the Beatles and not wearing  _ pyjamas, _ ” [s/n] snaps back, stomping over to the record player and taking the needle off the vinyl, cutting John off mid-sentence. The silence makes her room suddenly a whole lot colder. “You know how old people are, [y/n]. Mum wants to make a good impression.”

_ “You  _ want to make a good impression, you mean.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes, knowing it’ll set [s/n] off even more, but a smirk creeps onto your face when her cheeks flush. “Who knows what his nephew looks like, anyway? Maybe he’s ugly and then you’re putting all this effort in for nothing.”

[s/n] pouts. “Mum says he’s cute,” she argues, grabbing a teddy-bear in a frilly pink dress(probably one of  _ dad’s  _ presents before he fucked off) from your dresser. She pulls at his ear. “It’s worth a try.”

“Mum said he’s my age, too,” you state drily, still rubbing your poor, _ poor  _ toes. “Which means he’s too old for you.”

“I’m  _ thirteen.” _

You shoot her a pointed look, annoyance surging through your body. “Exactly my point,” you sneer. “I’m seventeen, remember? As he’s my age, he’s basically an adult. You’re still a child.”

She throws the stuffed animal at you and it hits you square in the face. “I hate you.”

“I love you too,” you answer with a cheeky smile. “Anyway, I’m coming, alright?”

[s/n] shoots you a heated glare. “You better,” she says, voice bordering hysteric, and then proceeds to stomp out of the room with dramatic flourish.

You groan, throwing your head back, and slowly climb to your feet. Your toes still ache. “Well,” you mutter, rummaging through your drawers in search for something to wear, “better get dressed then, huh?”

A couple of seconds later a small knock shakes you out of your thoughts, and you glance sideways to see [s/n] standing in the doorway with a sheepish, kind of stupid smile on her face. “Hey,” she says shyly as a way of answering your questioning eyebrow quirk, “is there any chance I can borrow your makeup?”

You chew on your lip to prevent yourself from laughing, knowing that [s/n] has never taken well to such outbursts. Still, you can’t help but send a small smirk her way.

“No,” you say, and her young face turns red with anger, flipping you the bird before stomping off yet again.

The pastor, Father James Deacon, is a lot younger than you’d anticipated. He’s somewhere in his forties, hair greying around his ears and hairline starting to recede slightly. There are laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and his smiles and polite questions seem genuine. You like him straight away, even more so as he tactfully ignores [s/n]’s awfully made-up face: the concealer is blended horrendously and the colour doesn’t match her neck, nor is the bright white eyeshadow applied properly. Her lipstick –  _ your lipstick,  _ you know that since you’ve applied that particular berry shade to your own lips many times before – has smeared across her teeth.

Kudos to the man for not (openly) judging.

“I apologize for my nephew being a little later,” Father Deacon says over his cup of steaming tea. He seems genuinely sorry. “He warned me that his shift might take a little longer than anticipated - he works in a town over, you see, as a side job. He wants to study electrical engineering soon and needs some money as a safety net, which is completely understandable.” Father Deacon blows on his tea and takes a small sip, before smiling again. “But it’s still a pity he’s late.”

“It’s completely fine, Father,” your mum exclaims with an excited smile. The gleam in her eyes tells you that she’s attracted to the man – which is  _ gross –  _ and you’re tempted to remind mum that priests cannot wed, but that might be a  _ tad bit  _ impolite in your current company.

They chat for a little while longer and you stand up to refill our teacups. Just as you do so, though, the doorbell rings. You scramble towards the door with a mumbled  _ “I’ll get it”  _ and a brief smile in mum’s direction, desperate to leave the stuffy air of the living room for just a moment, and ignore the chatter picking up again in the living room. Opening the door is a bloody embarrassment as you actually forget how the door even fuckin’  _ works,  _ but you somehow manage to unlock it. Your gaze lands on the person on the doorstep curiously as soon as the door swings open.

If you’re being honest, you hadn’t known what to expect from Father Deacon’s nephew when mum had announced he’d visit with his uncle. Different images had flitted through your mind at the thought of him: a lad who hadn’t been very lucky with puberty, still short and slender, with acne dotted covering his face and a small, wispy moustache on his upper lip he didn’t dare shave off; a boy with a creepy stare and a sweaty smile, who stared you down and eyed your covered cleavage with vigour; and very rarely an Adonis himself, wonder amongst townsfolk and a face fitting for Da Vinci’s golden ratio.

It’s somehow a gigantic relief that the young man falls within the bounds of ‘unintimidating, but still awfully handsome.

He’s a bit taller than you, with a kind face and brown hair and nice eyebrows. His eyes are both green and grey at the same time, and when he smiles at you carefully, you discover they crinkle in the same way as Father Deacon’s – but a  _ lot  _ better.

_ “Hi,” _ you want to say, but nothing seems to come out of your mouth. You  _ know  _ you look ridiculous, standing there and staring at him with your mouth slightly open as if ready to say something. You want to hit yourself out of your stupor.

The boy shuffles uncomfortably in place, blushing a little, before holding out his hand for you to shake. “Hi,” he says with a small, awkward smile. “I’m John Deacon. Nice to meet you.”

_ John,  _ it echoes through your head.  _ John. John, _ like John Lennon,  _ like John Deacon, _ a plain name fit for interesting people, and this John indeed seems way more interesting than his name. You take his hand and it’s warm and dry, and you inhale sharply to yank yourself out of the weird short-circuiting that’s happening in your brain. It doesn’t really help – his cologne manages to make your stomach bloody  _ flutter  _ – but you manage to push the words out of your mouth anyway.

“[y/n],” you introduce myself, and you just  _ know  _ that there’s a sheepish smile on your face. “[l/n]. Hi.”

“[y/n],” he repeats slowly. “That’s a pretty name.”

You merely grin at him, a little stunned by his presence, and the blush on his face becomes a little stronger before he clears his throat. “Er,” he starts, “may I come in?”

You just blink, dumbly.

“It’s a bit cold, y’know,” he adds with a tiny grin. “I’m freezin’.”

_ I’m gonna hit myself,  _ you think, stepping aside with a bright smile and an  _ “of course, come in! Come in!”,  _ and he enters shyly. He’s obviously insecure; the way he holds himself isn’t with confidence, but with an uncertainty that you know all too well. John removes his coat – revealing an  _ amazingly  _ fitted black button-up underneath – and then smiles at you again. Your stomach flutters for a second time and you take his coat, quickly hanging it on the coat rack, and then usher him into the living room. You follow him as he enters the room, smiling when tiy hear him happily greeting his uncle and apologizing for being late. You meet [s/n]’s gaze, who’s flushed bright red at the sight of him, and subtly rub your finger across your teeth. [s/n] – bless her – doesn’t seem to get the hint, and your mentally make a note to introduce her to makeup etiquette later tonight. It’s needed.

John didn’t talk much, allowing his uncle to speak words of welcome and excitement for the three of you; though you’re thankful that it prevented your from blundering in front of a boy you’ve apparently developed a crush on in a matter of bloody  _ minutes,  _ you would’ve loved to actually talk to him more. You spoke a little about school, barely talking about interests, and his leg pressing against yours made you feel things you hadn’t really felt before.

You’d like to get to know him a little better.

When it’s time for Father Deacon and John to leave, at a respectable five in the afternoon, you almost feel reluctant to see John go. He’s already outside, waving at mum, [s/n], and you, before climbing on his bike and waiting for his uncle to arrive.

Father Deacon takes his time, though. He does a small prayer at the  _ door(“more so for my own superstition rather than my job, love”)  _ and then starts joking around with mum. Just as it seems like he’s about the leave, his face lights up as if remembering something. Twirling around, he places a gentle hand on your shoulder and leans forward in a way that makes you feel as if he were going to share an important secret with you.

“John will be at the local pub this evening with his friends,” he says gently, a twinkle in his eye. “You might want to pay him a visit. He’d like that.”

You nod a little hesitantly, not knowing what Father Deacon’s underlying reasoning for that little comment was. The pub is exactly the type of place you want to avoid, as it’s a place where a close-knit community will always be close-knit. You’re a bit scared of feeling like an outsider, but Father Deacon winks at you and inclines his head in John’s direction as some sort of hint that you won’t feel like an outsider as long as he’s there. He then squeezes your shoulder jovially and turns around to [s/n] and mum, warmly saying his goodbyes.

He jogs towards the bikes, clapping John on the shoulder and sharing a laugh with him, before climbing on his bike and waving. The three of you wave back and you see that when John glances back, his cheeks flush when he sees you staring at him. Though it might just as well be a trick of the light or an effect of the cold wind, butterflies swarm your belly nevertheless and you bite my lip, already having made up my mind.

The sun has already set when you finally set foot outside of the cottage. Mum, who had elegantly collapsed on the sofa in exhaustion after dinner, had waved you off when you had announced you were going to the pub, but you hear a weak  _ “don’t drink too much” _ just before the door falls shut.

You quickly double-check the back pocket of your jeans to see whether the key’s still there before starting to make your way towards the town’s centre, where you suspect the pub might be. Father Deacon hadn’t been very clear on that particular part, but you’d always been good at guessing – that, and tiy have a feeling for direction that mum and [s/n] oh-so-obviously lack.

The streets are mostly silent, lit by the orange glow of the street lanterns evenly dispersed over the town, and your mind drifts to Father Deacon’s nephew, John. You want to get to know him, really, very much so; and judging by the twinkle in Father Deacon’s eye and the flush on John’s cheeks, he might be interested in you as well. Sadly, you don’t want to get your hopes up too much. Regardless of all the romance novels you have thumbed through, you refuse to fall into a hole of hopeful imaginations about wild romances that’ll never happen, nor just fall into your lap. You got your heart broken when George Harrison married Pattie Boyd a mere four years ago, as you’d previously always imagined he would storm into your room and sweep you off your feet at some point. You could barely listen to your trusty Beatles-records for about a week before you got over it, dried your tears, and started lusting after Paul, who then proceeded to break your heart all over again by marrying Linda Eastman in March of last year.

Kidding, you’r every pleased that he’s married her.

Either way, you don’t just want to imagine a non-existent relationship as the chances that you’ll be disappointed are quite large. You don’t know John, he doesn’t know you, and some blushing cheeks, quick glances, and teasing grins aren’t enough for you to commit to it. It’s stupid, and it’s childish, and you’re almost an adult who doesn’t need to fawn over boys anymore, dammit.

The pub is easy to spot. Dead centre in the town, the large detached building radiating warmth makes you feel a little nervous – especially since you’re new, and no one knows you – and yet also at home. A group of four is standing outside and the fact that you recognise John’s jacket even if you’ve seen it on him for approximately three minutes today almost makes you feel ashamed of yourself. Still, you push yourself forward, and with every step your doubt grows.

You can’t just wait for him to recognise you, can you? You don’t know anyone here, and simply sitting at the bar nursing a lonely beer might be a bit –  _ or very –  _ pathetic, wouldn’t it? Hands shaking, you stop about 10 metres before the group, fishing a pack of Marlboro’s out of your jacket pocket and placing one cigarette between your lips before you pat yourself down for your lighter.

A lighter you’d apparently forgotten.

_ Of course,  _ you realise. You’d lent it to mum less than hour an hour ago, and can still see it lying there on the dining table, pink plastic shining in the shitty lighting of the kitchen.

Dang it.

You’re very tempted to stuff the unlit cig back in its pack and turn around, to race back to the cottage to your mother and sister, both of whom have probably passed out around the house from exhaustion and stress. You inhale deeply and try to untwist your stomach, desperate to stop being such a  _ pussy  _ and willing yourself to grow a pair.

You walk closer to the group. You’re certain John’s part of it now, his short hair awfully recognisable, and you realise they’re all smoking. An idea sparks: holding your cigarette between your index and middle finger, you approach.

“Excuse me,” you call out, and you mentally pat yourself on the back for managing to keep your voice steady despite your crippling nerves, “has any of you lot got a light for me?”

They all turn to look and John – effortlessly handsome, the bitch – widens his eyes comically before grinning.

You haven’t seen him full-on grinning before, and the butterflies in your stomach start dancing around again. It’s a lovely sight: he’s got a gap-tooth, making him all the more adorable, and his grinis so wide that the corners of his eyes wrinkle visibly.

“[y/n]!” he says loudly. The amount of excitement in his voice makes it clear to you that he’s already had a few, because his demeanour is certainly different than when you met a couple of hours ago. “Fancy seein’ you here, love!”

Oh my  _ God.  _ You’re smiling, you can’t help it, because it’s both adorable and flattering that he immediately recognises your, and so  _ enthusiastically  _ nonetheless, and  _ God,  _ the pet name-

“Hey John,” you greet him, grinning back and applauding yourself for not squealing out loud, “yeah. Fancy seeing you here.”

He looks a tad bit dazed now, as if the mere sight of your smile has rendered him speechless, and then he seems to remember something. He digs through his pocket and comes up with a zippo, the silver-coloured material glinting in the light of the street lanterns, and lights the flame. “You needed a light, right?” he asks quietly with a crooked smile, and you nod. You put the cigarette between your mouth again and lean forward, inhaling into the flame.

Even if the darned thing isn’t needed anymore – John’s so fuckin’ cute you’ve completely forgotten my nerves – the nicotine still spreads a wave of comfort through you, as disgusting as the habit is. Leaning back again and heart skipping a beat when you notice him staring at you, you barely notice the harsh cough from behind John. He doesn’t either, apparently, judging by his wide-eyed stare, and he jumps when one of his mates taps him on the shoulder.

“Aren’t you going to introduce her to us, Deacy?”

You etch the nickname into your brain –  _ Deacy sounds adorable –  _ and you flick your gaze from John to the speaker. He’s handsome, attractive enough to make you blush a little when he shoots you a mischievous grin, and the array of wild curls dancing around his face makes him interesting. He’s a good couple of inches taller than John, you notice, with a lean body. He doesn’t seem dressed for standing outside in the current weather, wearing some skinny jeans and a thin button up with the sleeves rolled up till his elbows and the buttons undone till just below his ribcage.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Bri.” John’s voice sounds awfully tight, but you don’t really have the time to decipher what that means. Bri steps forward and clasps your hand gently; his fingers are cold and dry, tips roughened. He smiles again.

“I’m Brian May,” he says softly. “I’m one of Deacy’s band members, and automatically one of his best friends since he only has us-”

“That’s alright!” John interrupts, already making moves to step in between you two, but Brian harshly bumps his hip with him and John stumbles a little.

“[full name],” you reply with an amused smile. “Nice to meet you, Brian.”

He steps aside with a small laugh and ruffles John’s hair when he manages to hip-bump Brian back. John exhales through his nose and shoots Brian a glare, before smiling at you again. “Anyway, before I was so  _ rudely  _ interrupted-”

“You weren’t interrupted, Bri was just quicker,” a raspy voice pipes up. A guy – shorter than both John and Brian – with blonde hair cut in a mullet grins cheekily at you. He’s insanely pretty, face almost fairy-like, and your heart almost skips a beat when he immediately steps forward and grasps your hand, leaning down to kiss it.

“Roger Taylor,” he says smoothly, winking from his bowed position. “Lovely meeting you, beautiful. I’m a drummer, which means I can ba-” before Roger can finish the sentence he’s being yanked back by Brian, whining when the latter starts to scold him quietly.

“Hi Roger,” you call out to him with a smile, “I’m [y/n].”

Roger hits Brian in the stomach with the back of his hand and grins widely, winking again. Brian pulls lightly at Roger’s ear in retaliation, earning him another high-pitched whine; you can hear John sigh once more and when you direct your gaze at him, you catch him rolling his eyes.

“Well,” he mutters, “I suppose you can introduce yourself as well, don’t ya, Fred?”

Fred, another rudely handsome man, gracefully steps forward with a close-mouthed smile. He’s got short black hair, dark eyes, and a lithe body, dressed in a bright yellow sweater and some black jeans. “Hi dear,” he says. His voice is melodic and warm, “My name Farrokh Bulsara, but everybody calls me Freddie because I want them to. I’m the singer of our little band. I don’t know if he told you yet, but Deacy here plays bass.”

“We’re called Queen,” John adds softly. Weirdly, he seems a whole lot less agitated by the possibility of Freddie being attracted to you (or calling you “dear”) and he bumps his shoulder with the man. “Fred thought of the name.”

“It’s dramatic and royal, much like us,” Freddie sends you a wink and you grin at him before you’ve realised you’re doing it. “Though, really dear, it’s much more a hobby than it will ever be a full-time job. Thank goodness, none of us would last a month in the music industry. Bri has a mental breakdown at least once a week because he’s made from stress, Roger couldn’t keep his temper in check if it killed him, I get anxiety thinking about talking to people in front of cameras and Deacy here-” Freddie sends him a look, “Deacy would be way too rude to a potential manager. I personally work as a fashion designer-”

“You work in a second hand-clothes shop down the road,” Roger pipes up, and both Brian and John snicker. “I would hardly call dressing up dolls for the store-front windows of the Salvation Army being a ‘fashion designer’.”

_ “I design clothes, you fuck  _ ,” Freddie snarls, though he’s smiling. “Besides, you work there too.”

Roger laughs and yells  _ ‘touché’  _ at the same time as John looks at you with a smile. “Bri and I work in the nearest bigger town, in a small record’s shop. Pay’s not great, which is why I often help my uncle out for an extra buck, but it’s fun – innit, Bri?”

“It’s a better gig than being a barman in this place,” Brian says, pointing at the pub behind him with his thumb. “I couldn’t imagine serving beer to all kinds of drunkards all night long. Not made for that kind of life, mate.”

“Speaking of beer, I’m thirsty as fuck.” Roger is already skipping towards the entrance. “Are we all coming in, or am I supposed to carry five pints out here?” he then pauses and points at you. “Wait, you want one too, right?”

“I do,” you state, and you feel very thankful that he’s already thinking of you. “Thanks, Rog.”

He grins cheekily and winks at John, who rolls his eyes again. In an odd moment of courage you bump your shoulder against his, as if you want to reassure him about something that you’re not aware of. John appears to relax, sending you a small smile, and you grin back.

“How are you, by the way?” you ask. Of course, you’d seen each other mere hours ago, but a lot can change in a few hours. [s/n] is able to switch moods in mere seconds – and a similar thing happened to you after mum told you the three of you were going to move.

“Better now that you’re here,” he murmurs, and your face burns. Knowing that your cheeks are bright red at this point you quickly look away and blow out the smoke of your cigarette as an excuse to not look at him.

“Anyway, love, would you like to go inside?” he asks then, and you know his eyes are following your movements as you take your last drag and flick the bud away.

Exhaling the last of the smoke, you grin at him crookedly. “I’m positively a popsicle at this point,” you answer, even if my cheeks still feel like they’re on fire. “So, yes please.”

John’s smile turns into the wide, adorable grin once again and he nods at yo to lead the way, clapping Freddie on the back and stretching his foot to lovingly kick Brian’s calf. “Come on then lazy bums,” he says. “And Bri? Still can’t believe you haven’t frozen to death with your tits out like that.”

You’re on your fourth beer of the night when you realise how late it actually is, and how fucked you actually are.

You’ve always been a lightweight. In theory, four beers don’t really seem that much, but the pub provides pints large enough to drown in if you tried a little. One pint was actually enough for you to feel comfortably tipsy, and you usually stop after two. Sadly, you’d apparently felt the need to drink along with a bunch of teenage boys who can handle their alcohol better than the average sailor, because you’re apparently very stupid.

The only upside is that the alcohol is providing you with a courage you didn’t know you possessed and you’re leaning against John heavily, who’s got his arm slung over your shoulder as he sips his drink and drunkenly chats with Brian about guitars or music – or something. His fingers are tapping a rhythm you can’t recognise on your upper arm, the feather light touch giving you goosebumps. Freddie is sitting across from you, doodling designs and little images on the cardboard coasters, and Roger’s trying to get Brian’s attention by stabbing his finger repeatedly in the boy’s side. When the two lads had been getting all of you drinks earlier and Brian was stopped by a pretty bird with long brown hair, it’d been the same story. Freddie and John had told you with sly grins how Roger hated it when Brian got attention from people and didn’t pay attention to  _ Roger  _ as a result, and you found it positively hilarious.

_ “Honestly, why won’t they just date already?” _ John’d lamented with a slur to his speech, pouring the last bit of his beer down his throat.  _ “The sexual tension is just getting thicker each time they’re together and that’s at least once every day.”  _ Freddie had simply laughed – openly, you’d seen his teeth before by accident and when you told him honestly that it made him look beautiful Freddie had lit up – and winked with a  _ “you know it, darling”. _

“Fuck,” you groan after glancing at your watch. “It’s three AM.”

“Did your mum set a curfew?” Roger asks, looking up from his  _ annoying-Brian-May- _ activity. His eyes are a little glazed over, signalling both his intoxication and his exhaustion. When you shake your head with a  _ “no” _ he shrugs and starts stabbing Brian with his index finger again. “So nothin’ to worry about, then.” 

“I’ve got to help unpack stuff in the morning, though.” You start chewing on your bottom lip, sighing harshly through your nose and resting your head against John again. It’s honestly quite weird how comfortable you already feel in his presence in such a short amount of time. “I’m going to  _ die, _ Rog.”

“I can walk you home if you want?” John looks at you, and his gaze – almost black in the dim lighting of the pub – sweep over your face questioningly. You sincerely hope you don’t look disgusting. “They’re about to close, anyway. Usually we go fuck around somewhere around town or go back to one of ours, but I don’t mind having an early night.

Your heart swells. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” he says earnestly. Brian and Freddie produce synchronized  _ awh’s,  _ \- Roger’s resorted to playing with the undone buttons of Bri’s shirt, and doesn’t notice - and Bri ruffles John’s hair when the young man ignores his friends. The ‘awhs’, though, were justified in your opinion: you feel like you’re about to melt. John’s just too adorable, and your stomach flutters again as you slide out of the booth and put on your jackets. When you lose my balance a little by accident and he gently grabs you by my shoulders to steady you, hands not daring to slide to inappropriate places, you think you might very well be in love.

You lean against him as if you always do that, his chest warm against your back as he plays with a loose thread of your jacket’s sleeve. “Bye lads!” you say then, waving with a small smile. Freddie leaps forward to pull you into a hug and places three kisses on your cheeks with a  _ “get in here, darling”,  _ and even Roger averts his attention away from Brian’s buttons to blow you a kiss.

“Alright then lads,” John says, still slurring and waving half-heartedly. “Fred, you hot fuck, have fun sucking dick tonight. Bri, Rog - use protection. ‘Night.”

You’re giggling as he drags you out of the pub to a chorus of  _ “fuck you, Deacon”-s  _ and all of a sudden you’re outside. John digs through his pockets, whips out a pack of Camels and lights up a cigarette. You accept when he offers, allowing him to light it, and you link my arm through his.

“Do you know the way back to my house?” you ask him tiredly, and you rest your head against his shoulder while you wait for him to answer.

John takes a drag of his cigarette as you start walking. “Of course I do,” he says through a lungful of smoke. “It’s easy.”

“Well, that’s good, ‘cause I sure as fuck don’t,” you deadpan, laughing when John snorts and almost chokes on the smoke.

“Y’know, my gran used to live there before she moved in with uncle James – the pastor – so I know the way pretty well.” He looks at you sideways, shoots you a crooked smile. “I’m thinking that knowledge might become useful again.”

“Well, yeah,” you state dryly. Camel tastes a little different than your basic Marlboro, a little stronger maybe, and you clear your throat to get rid of a cough. “I sure as fuck hope you’re using that knowledge again, otherwise I won’t get home.”

He barks out a laugh and you don’t really get the humour in the situation, but you laugh along anyway. He’s got a nice laugh, one that makes you feel all warm and comfortable around him and automatically makes you giggle a little as well. It might be a bit freer than usual, actually, considering the amount of booze he’s poured down his throat these past couple of hours. You’re positively drunk and even you notice the clear slur to his speech – a slur you  _ must  _ have as well.

“You’re rather innocent, aren’t you, love?”

“Haven’t a bloody clue what you’re on about, Deacon.”

He snorts again. “Figured,” he giggles, sliding his arm out of the crook of yours, quickly stomping out his cigarette, and throwing it in a nearby dustbin. You follow suit, and then boldly and daringly decide to grab his hand and link your fingers together afterwards.

“Do explain what you meant, then,  _ love,”  _ you half-demand, half-laugh, and he spontaneously spins you around. Sadly – or luckily, just the way one looks at it - you’re a bit too unstable on your feet for that downright  _ amazing  _ move, and you fall against his chest in a fit of giggles.

“D’you want me to?”

You look up at him, squinting. “Of course, you daft git. Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t, now would I?”

John smiles and bites his lip, looking up at the sky. “It’s weird.”

“Sure it’s not,” you mutter, and you resist the urge to touch his face. “Do tell, Deacon.”

He glances down again, eyes flashing, and suddenly he’s got you pressed against the wall of a nearby building. It’s not harshly, no; gently, rather, as if he wanted you to have a stable thing to lean against. You know you’re excited, you can feel the rush and the butterflies in your stomach. The low temperature of the stone wall sinks into your jacket and this into your back, but you can’t bring yourself to care. John smells like a musky aftershave and cigarettes and beer and a hint of sweat, and it’s a combination that’s almost intoxicating. You’d like to smell it more often, you decide; every single day, preferably. You can feel your fingers itch to grasp the planes of his coat or slip in side his front pockets and pull him closer, but you decide to rest your hands against his chest instead and look up at his face.

“I think I might like you,” he admits, “and I suppose I’d like to walk up that path in the near future every day if possible.”

“Oh,” you manage to answer, and your brain seems to short-circuit for the second time in his presence, mind racing and stopping at the same time. You can’t prevent a the smile from spreading across your face. “Oh.”

John smiles back and leans in a bit closer. “I want to kiss you,” he mumbles then, eyes hooded as he stares down at you. Even though you’re probably just as drunk as he is, you notice that the statement comes out slurred, pulled together as if it were one word, and you come to the brilliant conclusion that he probably doesn’t mean it, that it’s just the heat of the moment and people appear more attractive to someone when they’ve downed enough alcohol to cloud their judgement. But either way, your heart races, pulse somewhere near your jawline but also somewhere way down south, because you’re both flattered and excited. Flattered that a boy boldly admits he wants to actually lock lips with you, excited that it is this boy in particular.

It’s a bit as if you’re being tickled, the glee rushing through you feeling both uncomfortable and pleasant. You  _ want  _ to kiss him, you realise,  _ want  _ to grasp his cheeks with both hands and press your mouths together. But he’s drunk, and you’re drunk, and you know for certain that you don’t want to be kissed by someone of whom you’re not entirely sure wants to actually kiss you.

John leans forward.

That’s something you hadn’t anticipated. Your breathing actually hitches when his lips brush yours; your hands, as if they’ve been gifted the power of free will, automatically slide up to rest close to his neck and when his mouth presses against yours a little harder, you pull him closer. You can taste the beer on his lips and drink it in. Your heart feels as if it’s about to bounce right out of your chest, and when you place your thumb just under his jaw you can feel his raging pulse.

You pull back a little to breathe, but you’ve barely inhaled before he’s kissing you again, soft and gentle. He sighs through his nose and slips his hand between you and the brick wall, resting it against the small of your back and tugging you tighter against him. His other hand is now cupping the back of your neck and then, despite having no clue on what to do and just going with whatever the fuck John was doing, you daringly dart your tongue out of your mouth and swipe it across his bottom lip.

The trashy romance novels that you’ve basically devoured over the years have not prepared you for the warmth you feel when he opens his mouth a little.  _ French kissing,  _ that’s what you’re doing. You’ve read about kisses like these, the handsome hero finally locking lips with the smitten protagonist, exploring each other’s mouths with their tongues like they’d been starved; yet this kiss is not like that. It’s not rushed or dramatic, and John’s tongue isn’t even exploring every inch of your mouth. It’s soft and it’s sweet and it seems like you’re taking your time. He tastes like the pale ale served at the pub and the salted peanuts you’d been snacking on throughout the night, and it’s not even funny how much you love it.

All too soon John pulls back reluctantly, earning him a  _ very  _ embarrassing whine from you. You’re already tugging him closer, peering at him through your lashes and aiming for his mouth, but he manages to evade your sad attempts and presses his face into the crook of your neck instead.

“It’s late,” he whispers, and he presses a kiss against your pulse. You sigh and dig your nails into his neck.  _ “Ow!” _ his head flies up and then he’s staring at you, a frown etched between his brows and a hint of a pout on his lips.

You sigh out a sorry.  _ He looks adorable,  _ you think dreamily, lifting your hand to smooth out the frown on his forehead and cup his cheek. He smiles at you, lips reddened and bruised, and you can’t help but giggle.

“We should start walking again,” he murmurs. “It’s cold and you need to sleep. Big day tomorrow and all that.”

“I can manage to place cutlery in the right drawer without sleeping.”  _ I’d like to kiss you again.  _ “I’m sure my mum won’t mind.”

“I’m sure your mum will kill me if she figures out I’ve been keeping you up.”

You purse your lips in annoyance, knowing he’s right to a degree. Though deep in your heart, you’re certain that mum will love the fact that you’ve been snogging the pastor’s nephew for a small portion of the night – she’s odd like that.

You slip past him with a sigh, linking your fingers together as you pass him, and drag him along. If he wants to stop kissing you,  _ fine –  _ but you do want, at the very least, a goodnight kiss, and you’d like to have it sooner rather than later.

“Eh, [y/n[?” John pipes up quietly after about twenty seconds of speedy walking.

“Hm?”

“Your place is the other way.”

You stop abruptly in your tracks, feeling both embarrassed and annoyed, and he bumps into you because of course, it’s dark and he’s not sober. You turn around to face him, smiling. “Thank you,” you say earnestly before you start to pull him in the right direction.

His hand is still warm and dry, and every now and then he squeezes gently for a reason you don’t know or probably understand, but it feels nice nevertheless. You don’t talk for the remainder of the way. The only sound is your steady footsteps on the pavement echoing through the abandoned streets and after a minute or two John wiggles his hand out of your grip. He throws his arm over your shoulder before your heart can drop, and picks at your sleeve annoyingly.

“What?” you decide to ask, breaking your brief silence.

John pauses mid-step, blinking at you. “Hold my hand,” he says softly, and you start grinning, linking your fingers again.

_ “I wanna hold your hand,” _ you sing quietly and he laughs out the next line, pulling you a little closer while we resume walking.

It’s all too soon that you reach the front door of the tiny cottage, and then his face is in your hands and his lips are brushing over yours ever so slightly. You pull his face closer to you and lazily move your mouth against his, tongue slipping into his mouth again.

_ Ah,  _ your brain thinks excitedly,  _ I’m French kissing a cute boy for the second time tonight. _

One of his hands slides down and rests at the curve of your hip, fingers toying with the waistband of your jeans as if he’s asking for permission. You don’t know if you’re ready for that yet so you decide to just curl your fingers around his and place his hand on your waist before gently biting down on his bottom lip. He produces a sound that’s between a moan and a groan and you almost giggle against his mouth, knotting your fingers in his hair for good measure. You’re about to bite his lip again when he pulls back with a gasp.

_ “Hey!” _ you protest silently, though you’re still very pleased with tonight’s events, and he laughs.

“I’m going to be a good boy now and let you get into your house,” he says, ducking his head and kissing your jawline. “Even though I really want to continue-”

“Then screw your good-ish-ness and fuckin’ continue.” You gasp when he nips at your earlobe.  _ “Please.” _

“No.” He pulls back completely now, looking you in the eye again, and gives you a short yet sweet peck on the lips. “You need to sleep.”

“Rude,” you state when he steps away from you. You dig the key out of your pocket and walk towards the door, scowling a little. “Very rude.”

John laughs. “Maybe so,” he says, “but you’re not going to feel like absolute death in the mornin’ now.” He pauses, biting down on that very bottom lip you’d bitten mere moments ago. “Okay, maybe a little. But less than not sleeping. And drink some water.”

You roll your eyes and open the door, turning back around to smile at him. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“If you want to,” is his quiet answer

Your heart skips a beat at that and when he smiles carefully, you grin back, excitement rushing through you. “Of course I do,” you reply, leaning against the doorway with cheeks that feel like they’re burning. “I want to kiss you again, remember?”

“Okay,” he squeaks, grinning. “that’s great!”

There’s a brief moment of silence, you just staring at him in wonder, when he sighs and says: “’night, love.”

“Sleep tight, John.”

You blow him a kiss and he laughs, grinning brightly and waving before turning around and walking back towards the centre of the town where the rest of Queen might be waiting or where he might live. Stifling a giggle when he almost trips over a bush, you close the front door and press yourself against it. The butterflies are still having a race in your stomach, your heart is still about to jump right out of your chest, and your lips feel swollen, but the smile on your face is not coming off any time soon. You’re certain of it.

_ Yes,  _ you think, locking the door with a small sigh,  _ I’d really like to get to know him a little better. _

  
  



End file.
